How to Kill John Watson, Easy Peasy
by Atlin Merrick
Summary: You don't need a McMillan Tac-50 with telescopic sight to take John Watson out. All you'll require to dispatch Dr. Watson quickly, cleanly and easy peasy is this: One riding crop plus patent-black stilettos plus a lisp and Sherlock Holmes.
1. Chapter 1

**How to Kill John Watson, Easy Peasy**

A sniper tried to kill John once. Fortunately the sniper failed.

What that Afghan soldier did not know is that you don't need a black market McMillan Tac-50 with telescopic sight, and you don't need to suffer the risks of return fire to very cleanly take John Watson out.

There is a much simpler recipe for kind of killing Dr. Watson dead, and the components needed are easy to access. As a matter of fact we're going to give you the fatal recipe now. Are you ready? Do you have a pen handy? Good, great. Here are the ingredients you'll require to dispatch one John Watson quickly, cleanly, without fuss:

One riding crop + patent-black stilettos + lisp + Sherlock Holmes

Combined these four ingredients and they = 1 dead John Watson

Or, you know, a John Watson so god damned over-stimulated, so brain-rattlingly turned on, so primed and ready to blow (you'll pardon and imagine the pun) that some parts of the poor man's limbic system simply shut down in self-defense and the good doctor is rendered utterly powerless for half a day. At _least._

It's not as if Sherlock was _trying_ to kill John, no. At first all he was doing was enjoying his strange super power, where just the lisp or a pair of sassy shoes or the crop was enough to make John sort of fall to his knees, cock as erect as his soldier's back, ready, willing, and able to do pretty much…well, anything.

So yes, at first Sherlock was just, you know, relishing this power. And by relishing we mean Sherlock was getting off on it as hard and as often as John, which is to say intense orgasms all around, thanks for coming!

Then Sherlock's cock sent a one-word message to Sherlock's brain and that was the end of that and the beginning of it all. The message (you already know its contents) was simply this:

_Experiment._

Sherlock thought this idea brilliant—Mr. Holmes, never not up for studying, quantifying, tweaking, improving and, apparently killing off his lover—and so Sherlock began experimenting, because if A + B equaled a spectacular O for both of them, then an antique C combined with a velvet B and a whispered D might just possibly equal O squared—how would they know until they tried?

Of course as he began his analysis Sherlock thought he was doing it covertly. Of course he pretty much knew he wasn't doing it covertly because John is annoyingly brilliant at detecting the detective. But that was fine, these particular experiments could only benefit from the hearty and willing involvement of all parties.

"This will almost never happen again," Sherlock began.

John put down his magazine, looked up at his lover from the snug comforts of his upholstered chair. He'd been reading without interruption for more than an hour, which was definitely the record for this month. The previous record for blissful silence from his sweetie had been thirteen minutes.

"What are you saying my precious pet?"

Sherlock arched a brow, cocked his head so he was peering at his lover with one eye. A little alone time seemed to do wonders for John now and again. Sherlock duly noted and recorded this fact—again—then promptly let the information leak straight out of his head. Again.

"You know that I'm making a study of a few sexual kinks?"

John closed his magazine, placed it strategically on his lap, directly over his cock. If this conversation was going to give him an erection, he wanted to pretend Sherlock wouldn't know. He had no idea why.

"I seem to recall that we've discussed a little something about the riding crop. Or the stilettos. I may have let my mind wander a touch during the conversation. You know how forgetful I can be my darling."

Sherlock squinted. John was in _quite_ the playful mood. It couldn't be—Sherlock tilted his head, cast his gaze at the magazine—the charms of the _British Medical Journal._ So he really must've enjoyed having a little alone time. Sherlock would have to remember that. Again. Sherlock went and shoved that thought out of his head immediately. Again.

"I know you're teasing but I'll forgive you." Sherlock could be playful, too. "What I started to say was—"

"Oh I remember now. Was it that conversation we had in the back booth at Angelo's? The one where halfway through I cupped your cock under the table and you squealed?"

Sherlock's mouth quirked. "I didn't _squeal."_ Sherlock cast his mind back. No, he'd squealed, he'd totally squealed.

"Uh, as I was saying, what I'm about to say I will almost never say again."

Sherlock is constantly bested by John. He's certain he can resist the small man's domineering ways and then the tiny creature casually says 'Jump,' and Sherlock's in the air before he thinks to even ask, 'What? Why?'

So in defense, the lofty genius has learned the dreaded art of padding definitive statements with bland modifiers like _almost, probably,_ and _likely._

"What is it you're talking about my luscious love? What is it you're claiming you'll almost never do again?"

The banter, the _banter_ was confusing him. Sherlock had come in here to start an experiment and then John went and got all cute and sassy and _what the hell was he saying?_ Oh yes.

"I was saying that I'll almost never do this again—" John opened his mouth but Sherlock plowed on, at volume. "—BUT FOR THE PURPOSES OF A SEXUAL EXPERIMENT, I AM GOING TO…lisp."

John'd been just fine taking the piss out of Sherlock, and he'd have continued to do so because it was entertaining and John was in a fine mood. However, the conversation had abruptly taken an unexpected turn and that turn veered straight down, from Sherlock's mouth to John's prick.

"What now?"

There. Good. The wind had at last blown the other way. Sherlock knew he once again had the upper hand.

"The next step in our experimentation of kinks to which you especially respond—remember we're doing mine next month—will now move on to _combining."_

John may or may not have made a small, deep sound.

"Quite. In this instance we'll be combining the riding crop, stilettos, and my…lithp."

Sherlock paused dramatically and don't think he didn't see clear as day the minute movement of a magazine over a cock that was _growing hard as he gazed._

"Quite, quite. Interesting." Sherlock's eyes flashed and a feral grin spangled that pretty face. "So much data already."

Both men licked their lips at precisely the same time.

"However," Sherlock smile went sly, "apparently you're occupied. I'll wait until you're through reading…" Sherlock gestured to the tented magazine, "…thith."

That same intense sound escaped John. "Sherlock."

Sherlock blinked casually. Yes, it can be done. Sherlock licked his lips again, made as if to turn away. "John?"

Beneath John's hand the _British Medical Journal_ was being unconsciously put to a use for which it had not been made. John caught himself and stopped. Then immediately started again. "Now?"

Sherlock's back faced John but the good doctor heard his lover's one word reply. "Yeth."

Neither would notice until half a week later that the _BMJ_ ended up in the fireplace so briskly did John move.

_I thought this would be a one chapter fic. Ha ha, like so much fun. I now seem to have taken upon myself the burden of writing a sex scene in which Sherlock wears heels, lisps lavishly, and gets done unto with the riding crop. Pity me._


	2. Chapter 2

John Watson is beautiful on his knees. And oh he goes to them so willingly.

Sitting on the bed, silk dressing gown spread around him like so much emerald plumage, Sherlock watched John's gaze travel down the long bare length of him.

Once the good doctor's gaze reached Sherlock's feet, he looked back up through lashes, and grinned.

And for Sherlock that's all it took. Control willingly ceded, experiment out the window, reins given over. When John held out a hand, Sherlock obediently placed in it a long and narrow foot.

A bit of back story.

Long ago the men of 221B reached an agreement about boundaries. Part of the conversation went like this:

"Beneath my side of the bed I'm going to put things. Beautiful things. Outrageous things. Things with which to fuck you. Then, as the mood strikes, I'll unveil these things—hopefully to much acclaim. _You_ will never touch anything under my side of the bed. Even if it's growling, dripping blood, or on fire, _you will not _touch it. If I learn you have, I'll put dichloromethane in every one of your experiments for a month. All right?"

Then, as now, Sherlock conceded. (Yes, yes, okay, one time he moved a box by an inch just to see if John would notice; he didn't.) (Yes he did, but John's learned it's easier to be domineering if the creature you're dominating thinks he's not being dominated.)

Anyway, the point is, John now reached beneath the bed and withdrew a black box. Sherlock politely grunted. _I honestly don't know what's in there. I'm not even going to try and deduce it,_ that small sound told his sweetheart, _I'm just going to go along with the moment like a _normal_ person who is _normal_ normally—_

"Gndghndghnd," said the consulting detective. The sound he _normally_ made when his language centers shut down.

Dear mother of god they were gorgeous. As subtle as a riding crop up the arse, as demure as crotchless knickers, as understated as a sequin-covered erection, the heels in that black box were the prettiest, flashiest, _Sherlock-iest_ shoes Sherlock Holmes had ever seen.

Patent-black with blood-red soles and interiors, each stiletto had five-inch silver-spike heels around which coiled a glimmering, jewel-eyed snake.

"Gndghghds." Sherlock said again. He shook his head. "Ffugstd." He cleared his throat. "…" Finally he just gave up and wiggled his toes.

Grinning, John slipped the first stiletto on to his lover. It fit perfectly.

"…"

Nope, still no words.

John took the second shoe from the tissue-filled box, allowed them both to admire it for a few moments, was then about to slide it onto Sherlock's other foot when he seemed to have an idea.

On his knees in front of his lover John looked up. He parted lips. He took an unhurried breath. And he slowly slid the heel of the second shoe into his mouth.

"…!"

Sherlock was pretty sure he'd maybe just come a little.

So keyed up was the good detective, as a matter of fact, that John suspected all he'd have to do was swipe the tip of his tongue over the top of Sherlock's cock and the man would go off like an aqueous solution of bicadmium sulfate to which caesium salts have been added.

John, however, did not apply mouth to member.

Instead he pulled the heel slowly out of his mouth, cupped the sole of the shoe in his palm, lifted Sherlock's other foot, and—

_Oh dear god._

—_pushed_ his tongue between ridiculously long toes and so help him Sherlock fell back on one hand and damn well clutched his heart with the other.

So hard he hurt, so absolutely erect his cock pressed up against his belly, desperation finally returned to Sherlock his tongue. Marginally.

"Sssss," he said. "Fffffff!" he eagerly amended.

John paused, gazed up, took pity. Marginally.

He lowered Sherlock's foot and murmured, "Say it."

Sherlock waited a few long moments for blood to return to his brain. Waited…waited…felt higher functions return, opened his mouth and—

"No. Say it the way you promised."

When Sherlock's eighty-seven years old and has long since celebrated his golden anniversary with John, he's going to have a thought for the six thousand nine hundred and twenty-third time. And that thought's going to be this thought: "How? How does he do it? How does he know what I'm going to say before I do? _This is soooo not fair."_

Right now that lament was but a fleeting notion as Sherlock took a shallow breath, wriggled his tongue round his mouth, then pressed it against his teeth. "Thhhhtop," he whispered. "Pleath…thtop."

John Watson sat back on his heels, closed his eyes, and he damn well _hummed._ _Again, _that hum begged, _Again?_

You'd think the balance had now shifted, wouldn't you? You'd think Sherlock was once again leading. How the hell little _you'd_ know.

"Thtop John, Johnny, my John," Sherlock breathed.

John bowed his head, the better to hear.

"Throke me, John. Thuu…_ck_ me, fuck me," Sherlock sighed. _"Pleath."_

And _now,_ now you'd be correct. Now John was Sherlock's to command.

With something approaching reverence John slipped the second shoe on Sherlock's foot. Everyone present took a moment to admire the satin-black against that fair flesh. And then Sherlock stood, dressing gown sliding slow from his shoulders.

John rose with him. John looked up. And up.

Their usual height difference? Not all that much really. Not even six inches; scarcely a dozen centimetres. Hardly rare. Barely remarkable.

_Entirely magnificent._

And then…heels.

It happened the very first time Sherlock slipped on a pair of stilettos. Something about those additional inches, something about the whole Sherlock-even-taller, John-even-smaller thing had felt for both of them…what's the word…what _is_ the word? _God damn sexy as all hell?_ Indeed yes, those are the words.

So when John looked up, Sherlock standing there rock-solid steady on the absolute highest heels he now owned, and Sherlock slowly _looked down_ at him, well it's entirely possible John maybe sort of came a little. Possibly. Perhaps. A bit.

"Hnnnmmm," the good doctor hummed, fingers flying fast over the buttons of his shirt, "Ooooo," he said a touch more lyrically, toeing off his shoes and—

More. The difference. _There was now more of it._

And then Sherlock had to go and confuse everything all to god damn hell.

"Let'th thtart with the riding crop."

"Yes," John breathed, "Yes."

"On my fath."

"Ye—what now?"

Sherlock ran long fingers—John could feel them trembling—through his sweetheart's hair. "My face, John. _My face."_

_ _The shoes. The shoes the shoes the shoes. You must look at these beauties on my Tumbler, which is atlinmerrick dot tumblr dot com (p.s. I'm also on Twitter now). If you come to this story months from now, just search Tumbler for "Gianmarco Lorenzi Swarovski stilettos red" or Google with the same term. On Google they'll be the second result. And yes, it took me forever to update this, for which I apologize. I don't expect chapter three (perhaps the final chapter) to take three weeks to write. Hell no._ _


	3. Chapter 3

A cock can't get hard in seconds. Ask Dr. John Watson, he knows these things.

By the same token, a hard-on can't go soft in the time it takes to say, _What? Where?_

However, about this John's not prepared to vouch.

"Your _face_?"

Naked but for trousers held on by the curve of his arse, John looked up at Sherlock. And now, right now? Their heel-enhanced height difference—not quite one foot, maybe closer to a thousand—made a confused army doctor feel stupid and small.

"I can't strike your face, Sherlock. I…I'm sorry, but—"

"Thtop," Sherlock breathed, pressing close with one silver-spiked step.

He could have said more, done more, but Sherlock did neither. Instead he held John's gaze and he waited.

_Look at me my love. _Deduce _me._

Sherlock didn't say it. Sherlock's never said it. Maybe never will. But with bare shoulders pulled back, naked legs spread, and a light-eyed, lingering gaze Sherlock's entire beautiful body begged it.

John's not Sherlock. They're soul mates, yes, of like mind in dozens of things, but he's emphatically not Sherlock. Because most of the time John has to work for this, he's got to dig for his deductions.

Sure, he can read his lover's desire in a stuttered word, ascertain Sherlock's pique with one press of those pretty lips, but with some things, like how Sherlock needs and wants and yearns to be_ beaten…_ Well generally speaking John Watson fucking needs _speaking._

_Tell me._

Looking up at Sherlock—the height difference was slowly working its confusing, sexy magic again—John could have simply said that. He didn't. He _wouldn't._ Because experiment or not (and John's got no clue if this was still a study in kinks or if it was now something else entirely) sometimes John wants to prove himself _to_ himself.

See _what you see, John Watson. Open your eyes and _look.

Okay then. John needed something to _see._ "Get the riding crop."

Sherlock gazed down at John. Then Sherlock did something he's never done before but _will_ do again because John's about to learn he loves it, he damn well _adores_ it.

The tall man wearing the five inch heels—yeah, the pretty black-and-red heels with the silver, gem-eyed snake on them?—he bent at the waist until his pretty arse was sticking out, cocked one knee, and with those big hands clasped behind his back he presented his mouth for a kiss.

And there it is. _There it fucking is._ Why, maybe, just maybe, the height thing is, well, _the height thing._

Here was a big man, a strong man, lowering himself down, making himself small…for his small man.

John literally shook his head to clear it from the primal sounds rattling around in there—guh! hnnng! and things similar—and he took hold of that sharp-featured face with both hands and kissed the waiting mouth carefully.

And then the man whom his sweetheart calls tiny tyrant brushed his lips soft against his lover's and said, "Get. The. Riding. Crop."

With a grin that can only be called saucy, Sherlock stood tall. With a motion that can only be called strutting, he swayed those hips on his way to the wardrobe—wherein hangs the riding crop—and then he did not go to there.

Aware that he'd be followed, knowing he had no intention of being anything short of _fucked into the floor _very soon, Sherlock turned and headed toward the sitting room.

And he worked it. Oh god how he worked it.

Shoulders back again, head high, the curve in his lower back making his arse stick out so far it constituted a traffic violation, or an object you could see from space, or, or, or…John stopped trying to think of things like this because it was distracting him from _this,_ and this was a stiletto-heeled saunter, a sway of broad hips, legs that really were not that long but which created their own optical illusion and seemed to go on for strong, lightly-muscled miles and though Sherlock was _not_ on hands and knees, and he was _not_ spread-legged and begging, and John's cock was _not_ sliding slow up that sweet, beautiful arse…well John was _breathing_ as if right now they were doing all that and more.

John grunted. Good god, it didn't take much of an experiment to conclude that yes, yes, a thousand times yes, heels plus lisp plus riding crop, all with the bonus of that peacock strut, and yes indeed you can and will half near kill John Watson damn well dead. Easy peasy.

About the time the good doctor was pretty sure he was ready to tackle his one true love to the hardwoods, Sherlock stood in front of the sitting room bookshelf on which sat the telly, dusty, smudged, and dark.

A fleeting grin lit John's face, there and gone. He should have known Sherlock would know. Yet if there was one place in the entire flat John believed Sherlock would take active pride in pretending to ignore, it was anywhere remotely near the television.

Sherlock glanced at his lover—_a fine effort, my domineering darling—_and extracted from behind that telly a riding crop.

My, my but it was a pretty thing.

"Bespoke," Sherlock softly said.

He looked up at his bare-chested love, half-undone trousers hanging low on his hips. "It's a little shorter than usual, meant no doubt for your smaller stature." He brushed fingertips along the royal-blue body of the crop, gaze sliding slow up to the black sterling silver handle. His mouth quirked up. "Black. And blue."

John hummed. "What else?"

Sherlock fingered the handle of the crop then the tongue, but his answer wasn't in words. Instead he handed the whip to John and began to sink to his knees.

"No."

Sherlock instantly stopped moving. Then he frowned, always a touch irked when his body bypassed his brain and instinctually obeyed John's commands. He waited.

John gestured toward the kitchen with his chin. "Chair."

Sherlock lofted a brow. Then he smiled, always more than a touched pleased when John insisted on surprising him. He waited.

"Now."

Sherlock grunted, a low sound, dark as shadow. _I let you do this to me,_ that hungry sound said. _I'll always let you._ Then the tall man stepped around the small one, and there it was again: The exceedingly insolent, wholly riveting, completely cock-hardening cat walk.

That saucy stride went on for a hundred years, or a dozen feet, whichever's longer and leads to more doctorly tooth-clenching and pre-come.

Once in the kitchen Sherlock tugged a chair close with the toe of his stiletto and slowly sat facing John.

The good doctor took a step, _one single god damned step,_ and about then Sherlock planted one silver-heeled foot in front of the left chair leg, and the other in front of the right chair leg…his own spread wide.

Look, John's just going to blame his buckling knee on the psychosomatic limp, okay? The one _in the other leg._

But Sherlock wasn't done laying the army doctor low. Lifting his chin, he reached behind him and wrapped long fingers around the cool metal of the chair back. Legs, ankles, arms—Sherlock had now tied himself to that chair with…nothing.

Maybe it was a grunt, maybe a groan, whatever it was, the sound suddenly coming from the good doctor was one of admiration, frustration, and most certainly desire. Closing the distance between them—stride quite sturdy this time—he roughly lifted Sherlock's chin, kissed his lover's open mouth.

"Tell me," he growled, teeth biting soft at lips and pale cheeks.

The pulse in Sherlock's neck fluttered fast, he leaned into his lover. "Mmmmmake me," he moaned.

And there it was again, tables turned in an instant, because these two know no other way.

John laughed low, continued nipping at the sweet-salty skin of the one damn kink he knew he really had, all six bare feet of it. "This time…" he breathed, "…this time I'm going to make you watch."

Sherlock's head tipped back, eyes half closed. "Yethh," he slurred, suddenly something very like drunk. He tried to say it again but John had already stepped away, just a foot or two, but more than enough so that Sherlock could clearly see each motion, while his lover beat him.

Hand loosening on black silver…fingers going slack then firm…tongue sliding over lips…chest filling with a deep breath…a dark blue gaze searching, waiting, until one of rare grey met his, and with a grunt John swung.

And in that flickering instant between not knowing and knowing where the crop would strike, Sherlock closed his eyes.

And oh how the pain _sang._

The sweet agony centered at that delicate flesh where the waist dips just before curving into hip, its voice sharp and high where the crop's tongue snapped against skin, deep and low where muscle already pooled blood in preparation to bruise.

Like Sherlock, John doesn't get off on the pain; like his lover he's learned to love what comes after. And for John it was the sound of a bright spiked heel stuttering against a metal chair leg as Sherlock struggled to keep himself bound, it was the high keening that was half begging, half relief, one hundred percent demand for—

_"More."_

John watched the pulse in his sweetheart's neck flutter fast, listened to him moan his need. And switching the crop from one hand to the other…he made his lover wait. Because he knew Sherlock needed that most of all.

When John heard again the tiny click of a metal heel against chair leg he struck again.

Centered now in the muscled swell of Sherlock's shoulder, the pain's voice was duller, the anatomy here less refined. But oh how the one stinging note _lingered,_ going deep into bone and tendon, making him shake.

Sherlock was breathless and already begging again, just a wordless noise, his body rocking forward—but only as far as his 'bonds' would let him—then the third strike came.

Turning away instinctually, eyes clamped closed, it took Sherlock's brain three long seconds to realize the crop's momentum had halted and its tongue merely _rested_ against his cheek.

"Oh. Oh. Oh."

God how had he not known that just the _expectation_ of pain would set nerve endings on fire?

"More," said John Watson, stroking Sherlock's cheek and neck with the tongue of the crop, then swiping it softly across full lips.

"Pleath…" Sherlock said, sighed, and it was as much a command as any order Captain John Watson had ever given.

Then Sherlock opened his mouth.

Because another way this crop differed from others was at the business end. The tongue was no longer than usual, but it was noticeably broader, precisely as wide, it turns out, as a man's mouth.

_This_ man's mouth.

Pleased, of course he was pleased Sherlock saw, Sherlock knew. He showed his satisfaction with another swipe across his sweetheart's mouth, laughed when his lover hissed as the crop remained in motion, dancing, brushing, sweeping across chin, neck, bruised shoulder—the sound from Sherlock as John lightly pressed? As sweet as the mew of a kitten—nipples, belly, and then there, right there, at the dripping slit of Sherlock's cock.

Spellbound and silent, they both watched John drag the tongue of the riding crop through the pre-come glistening a pretty trail down Sherlock's cock, then each flinched when, with a lazy flick of the wrist, the good doctor brought the crop up and quite tenderly pushed the wet tongue of it into Sherlock's waiting mouth.

You'd be hard pressed to say whose moan was more lavish, but it was quite clear who was more oral. Sherlock sucked, Sherlock lapped, Sherlock bit down hard and shook his head and in that chair to which he was and was not bound Sherlock started pumping his hips, and is it _pre-_come if there's so much of it it might as well _be_ come?

Well that can be a discussion for another time. Right now John was busy tugging lube out a back pocket, pushing low-slung trousers down, pants too, and stepping free of both, while stepping close to his oh-so-ready love.

Speaking of which…

"I love you," John breathed, tugging the riding crop from Sherlock's greedy mouth, then waiting a deliciously weak-kneed moment before pushing the dark metal handle between his lover's lips.

Sherlock leaned forward with a groan, taking in every inch.

Because the final difference between this crop and any other? Its black sterling silver handle—now as hot as skin and pressed right up against the back of Sherlock's throat—was exactly as _long_ as a certain ex-army doctor was now.

Though that was soon to change.

While his avid lover fellated that pretty crop, John sloppily slicked up their cocks—again, it'd be difficult to tell whose moan was more grand—and then the good doctor climbed on and after a few heart-pounding fumbles helped Sherlock sink in deep.

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Yes, yes, yes._

Two brains, one desperate, profane litany.

At first John did what Sherlock so often does—almost nothing. He barely moved, rocking so slowly that each man was sure he could hear the rush of blood in the other's ears.

He would have gone on this way awhile—that plush mouth sucking on the crop bordered on the god damned hypnotic—but to everyone's surprise, Sherlock could. not. stand. it. anymore.

Tossing his head, he pulled his mouth free. "Touch me," he commanded, "now," he begged, and to which request John responded Sherlock didn't know, but that pretty crop slid to the floor, John wrapped his arms around his lover's neck, leaned back, and whispered, "Hold tight."

And finally the man who was never fettered freed himself, gripped his lover's waist, and together they began to move.

A cock in the arse is many things: Fan-fucking-tastic, for both cock and arse. It's also a divine way to chase down an orgasm if yours is the cock, and a rather marvelous way to torture yourself half-to-death if yours is the arse. It is also, if you're John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, a pretty stellar way to get _really loud._

It wasn't just the yelling, though there was plenty of that. Sherlock, head tilted back, opened his mouth and just let loose lyrical waves of _noise,_ first nonsensical sounds high and breathy and desperate, then purrs and growls all low…and still desperate. But John, who's usually nowhere near as vocal as his lover, hell in a handbasket he was candid—"Oh god, fucking god, dear god"—zealous—"Yes, yes, yes"—and emphatic—"harder, Sherlock, _please."_

So yes, there was lots of yelling, but there was also the small delicious matter of the chair back banging against the table as the boys banged each other. While the sound did exactly nothing for Sherlock, to John every sweet slam of chair against wood was like some sort of aural exclamation, perfectly punctuating every one of Sherlock's thrusts and moans.

By the time his lover bellowed something in either French or Pig Latin, arms shaking as the orgasm blazed through, John was so caught up in the damned symphony of sound he was possibly hallucinatory, drunk, or three seconds from coming, too.

The veracity of this supposition was proven almost true when Sherlock dropped a hand between John's legs, took hold of his lover's cock and, while he continued to thrust and moan and ride that orgasm into the ground, started jerking John off.

It wasn't until Sherlock shifted, planting each stiletto-clad foot more firmly, heels clicking against hardwoods, that John howled, coming all over Sherlock's hand, his belly, and, somehow, they learned later, _both_ of Sherlock's shoes.

And that? _That_ is how you take out one John H. Watson. Easy fucking peasy.

_Did you need a reminder about the, the, the, glorious shooooes? Well go to my Tumblr or Google, and either place search for "_Gianmarco Lorenzi Swarovski stilettos red." You are welcome.__

_**MORE!** I'm no longer publishing on FFnet as they don't want NC-17 content, so please come to atlinmerrick dot livejournal dot com if you'd like to read more, or Tumblr or Twitter, and eventually everything will be on AO3 eventually. Please follow!_


End file.
